


Untitled Spiral Game

by shella688



Series: fast-travel across the atlantic with this 1 weird tip [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast), Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: (mild + spiral-typical), Body Horror, Developing Friendships, Gen, POV Second Person, implied/referenced jonmartin and cecilos, ive got some very specific hcs and it shows, me? making helen more of a sympathetic character? its more likely than you might think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-18 11:01:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21509971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shella688/pseuds/shella688
Summary: It's a lovely day out there somewhere and you are a horrible avatar
Relationships: Helen & people who maybe arent all friends yet but theyre getting there!
Series: fast-travel across the atlantic with this 1 weird tip [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1540597
Comments: 47
Kudos: 251





	1. The Hunter

**Author's Note:**

> There's ~3 weeks between MAG159 and 160 where everyone gets to be (relatively) happy and by god I will make the most of it
> 
> Also Daisy is free of the Hunt in this one

It's a lovely day; the sun is bright, the birds are singing, and you are very bored.

Well, time doesn't quite exist in these corridors, so it's not really day. And maybe those aren't birds, and maybe "singing" is being optimistic. And sure, that big light is definitely _not_ the Sun.

But you are certainly bored.

You breifly consider trapping someone, eating them slowly, slowly, savouring their fear. Unwanted, the memory of Jon comes into your head. All his hope that both of you were trying. Trying to do what?, you didn't ask then and don't ask still, because deep down you knew. But now that idea seems unnecessarily cruel. It's not like you _need_ to eat, not at the moment.

Oh, you seem to have developed a moral compass. How unfortunate.

Then again, you think to yourself, there's a difference between causing harm and being a nuisance.

After all, it's a lovely day somewhere, and you are a horrible avatar.

* * *

The Hunter is supposed to be working, except she's been staring at the same sheet of paper for a good 10 minutes whilst some music plays in the background.

You're not sure what music, Helen never was a fan. Michael liked it, in a vague, poetic sense, but you're Helen now, not Michael, and it's hard to find the old passion.

Besides, it's too _linear_ for your tastes.

"Hello Hunter," you say. She's free of the hunt now, so the title isn't quite right, but what else would you call her? Her name? Ridiculous.

Making sure your door creaks shut loudly, you clatter your way into her line of sight. Even now she doesn't do well being surprised - it's far too easy for the Hunt to come rushing back. After all, you're only here to be a mild to moderate irritant.

(Some small, Michael-shaped part of you is proud about living up to Jon's expectations. You glare until it slinks off, but that only reveals the Helen Richardson-shaped part of you hiding behind it, also slightly proud.

You give it the finger.)

The Hunter waves slightly.  
"Fancy doing some taxes?" she asks, gesturing at the stacks of paper piled around her.

You do not.

Neither does she, though, and you can see an easy solution to _that_.

The bones in your hand crack as they lengthen. Longer, longer, longer and now you can reach the pen she holds loosely in one hand. You pluck it out, and before she can protest, put it straight into your mouth.

_crunch crunch_

You don't break eye contact. A grin stretches across your face, a dark dark black from the ink filling your mouth.

_crunch crunch_

Down goes another from the mug at her desk, the Hunter narrowing her eyes. It's a big mug, bearing the logo of somewhere called Dark Owl Records, and holds plenty of pens.

_crunch crunch_

Finally the Hunter sighs, lowering her head into her hands. Her shoulders are shaking but you're pretty sure she's stifling laughter rather than sobs. Maybe you should check.

After you finish this.

_crunch_

"Do you have any pens?" you ask, innocent as anything. "Someone appears to have eaten all yours."

There's another heavy sigh.  
"Helen." she says at last.

"Hunter."

"I appreciate your motives, but these taxes really need doing. Far as I can tell, Bouchard embezzled his way through his time here and Lukas didn't believe in money. I'd like to get paid sometime."

You laugh. It's less like a headache and more like eye strain.  
"That sounds like a you problem,"

A scrunched-up ball of paper hits you on your way out.


	2. The Scientist

You're not sure what the Scientist is doing.

You're not sure the Scientist knows what the Scientist is doing.

He's doing it anyway, because he is a scientist. Doing things without knowing why in the hope that you'll find out along the way is the whole purpose of science after all.

He seems quite occupied at the moment. How long, you wonder, would it take for him to notice you're there? A while, probably, but you're in science territory now, and a mere "probably" isn't good enough.

So you sit down on the ground, and wait.

And wait.

Every so often, the Scientist reaches over to a nearby table to pick up some new tool from the pile of them. He doesn't see you waiting - he doesn't even turn his head, relying on muscle memory alone.

But: is it muscle memory, though? Maybe he's got eyes in his palms, and he can see the table with those. You don't know, which means it's time for more science!

(It doesn't even occur to you to simply ask. That's such a... _human_ way of going about it)

On the table there's a frankly ridiculous amount of devices. There's the standard stuff, of course: a micrometer, an egg timer, a Tiny Hadron Collider, a viscometer. Not what you want, however.

Ah- there it is. You take the ruler and consider it a moment. Then, carefully, you place it next to one of the table's feet.

Now this is the difficult bit. You take the legs of the table, pulling it back 6 centimetres exactly. It makes an awful scraping sound against the floor.

"Is that you Helen?" the Scientist asks.

How does he know it's you? Science, probably. Sometimes you're really not a fan.

He's still not turned around though, meaning you could leave now before he realises anything amiss.  
"Just a yawn. Don't let me disturb you."

Or you could do that.

"Of course. Oh, and that reminds me-" begins the Scientist, turning around, but that's where he stops, with pursed lips and an intrigued expression.  
"Hold on. Did you see anything happen to this table?"

You copy his expression exactly.  
"What table?"

"This one: I think it just moved of its own accord! That is one of the most scientifically significant things to happen all day. I'll have to carry out some more experiments, but I bet Cecil would be fascinated to hear this."  
He mumbles on, scrawling down notes you can't make out. Apparently he's forgotten about his earlier point.

"Reminds you of what, Scientist?"

"Carlos," he says, distracted. When he finally processes what you said, he makes a small * _ah!_ * sound, and slaps the air exactly 6 centimetres from the edge of the table.

_Vindication._

"Relying on muscle memory alone can be dangerous, Scientist. You of all people should know that." Your tone is mild but, as they say in Night Vale, you're grinning like a kid in a weapons shop.

"Carlos." He doesn't miss this time, picking up a letter you hadn't noticed previously. "I've got another letter for Martin, if you wouldn't mind delivering it? His last one was very interesting from a scientific standpoint."

"My past performance is not a prediction of future results," you say, taking the letter with unnaturally sharp fingers.

The effect is totally lost on the Scientist, who has already turned back around. He hums quietly to himself, comfortable with the assumption that you'll help him.

Perhaps science isn't so bad after all.


	3. "what no jon doesn't like me in that way I would know"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this developed a storyline then got kinda sad?? Everyone's favourite stabby door is still around causing problems but... yeah

You glare at the man. He can't see you - doesn't even know you're there yet - but it makes you feel better.

The problem is, you don't have a title for him There are plenty of things that _nearly_ work: Poet, for example, but he's hardly written anything since the Lonely, so that doesn't seem very nice. You tried Archival Assistant, but he doesn't work there now and even when he did he was less "assistant" and more "one of the few competent people there". There's always the Archivist's Boyfriend but, honestly, if anything happens between him and Jon the two of them will be the _last_ to know.

(The small Michael-shaped part of you decides now is a useful time to show up again, far too pleased that you used his name.

How did Michael ever manage to do anything? He doesn't even exist anymore and yet he's still here, obsessed with Jon.)

Nameless or not, you've still got that letter to pass on. You open a door, stepping out right into his path, smirking at his shock.

"Keats." You decide that's as good a title as any, with the bonus uncomfortable familiarity using someone's middle name brings. "You've got mail."  
  
"How do you know my middle name?" he asks, eyeing the letter with suspicion.

"The Archivist appears to be fond of you. He talks about you a lot."  
Well that's certainly an understatement.

"What - no! He- Jon doesn't like me in that way. I would know."

You resist the urge to roll your eyes all the way back down the path, just to demonstrate your point, but settle for merely rolling them in your head. If he's going to say something so obtuse maybe _that_ could be his title.  
"A letter for you, from the Scientist."

"Carlos." He takes it from your outstretched hand, opening it immediately.

As he reads, you take the opportunity to move closer. Close enough so that he can feel your too-warm breath on his neck, any slight movement on his part results in you touching.

"Helen do you mind? I'm reading."

"Wouldn't want you to fall into the Lonely again, would we? People would be most upset. Your Archivist, for one." You do back off slightly, which must count for something.

And it does, because there's a moment where he leaves you be. But then -

"What is it with you and names?" he snaps.

"How ever do you mean?" You've got the terrible feeling you've gone too far, but now he's asking personal questions and, oh dear you're angry too.

"You never use them! I _know_ you know what Jon's called, and Carlos as well. And - hell - if you know my middle name you must know my first. Why do you insist on these... ridiculous titles?"

"I didn't have a name until it was _forced_ on me. When Michael was thrown into the _we_ and ripped out the _I_. Names have a power that you who were merely given one cannot understand. I will not waste one on someone I have no liking or respect for."

"So then make an effort! You can't just say you don't like someone and- and do _nothing_. At least find something small about them to like! Look, really look, inside yourself for anything you can respect them for because- otherwise you'll stop seeing them as a person!"

"Do not presume to know me."

"Don't you dare! Don't ever say something like that - not after everything. We can't just wait for excuses to be nice, or be kind, because we don't have that option! Not when the Fears or- or whatever they are, are still out there and definitely not when it all was - no, it still is - so close to falling apart. If there isn't us then there is _no-one_."

The door slams behind you.


	4. Melanie

By the time you show up at the flat Melanie and her girlfriend share, calmer and less likely to cause moderate to severe bodily harm just for the hell of it, Melanie's already placed two steaming mugs of coffee on the table in front of her.

"Hi, Helen," she says, and seriously, how does she know it's you? "Have a sea- _no don't_ steal another chair I meant sit down. I'm not going to Ikea again."

You laugh, sitting opposite her.  
"Is this a progress meeting? Because last time you were involved in one of those someone got stabbed."

"And I've worked hard to get to the point where that won't happen now." Melanie gives you a scathing look that really can only be described as a Look. You'd forgotten how good she was at those, even with damaged eyes.

She clearly wants you to say something, but you figure it would be thematically appropriate at this point to throw your cup of coffee as hard as you can into your corridor. There's a pause as you both listen to it rebound away. None of it spills - which is nice, if illegal under the standard laws of physics.

"Did you just trap my mug in your dimension?"

"I believe that's called a 'hot drink to go'."

This does draw a laugh out of her, but it's quickly replaced by the same serious look.  
"Martin just rang, maybe an hour ago. What happened?"

"You and him are in contact?" You're genuinely surprised at that.

"And you're avoiding the question."

"Quite."

There's a prolonged silence, broken as Melanie stands up quickly, stretching her back and making exaggerated moans of pain.

"Sorry, my back's aching."

But... are they really exaggerated? It's been a while since you've had permanent bones and you can't for the life of you remember what it felt like. Were they painful like that?

"My back is aching," Melanie continues, heavy emphasis on each word, "from carrying this conversation. Are we going to talk like normal people or are you going to sit there being cryptic?"

That's fair.  
"Apologies, Melanie."

She sits back down.  
"Alright, spill."

"He confronted me, so I retaliated," you begin, but that's not what happened, is it? "I... thought he was being confrontational, so I retaliated in a way that... most likely didn't help matters."

Melanie makes an _mmhm_ sound.   
"Martin also said you were being weird about names. You use mine though?"

"That's because I li- enjoy your company."

"No-one else's?" she asks, failing to hide a laugh.

(That small Michael-shaped part of you is shouting about what Keats - okay fine _Martin_ \- said but it doesn't even have the good grace to look like him; it's only you now, looking right back into your own face.

Only you to blame, but only you to make a difference.)

"What's that voice inside your head called, the one trying to make good decisions?"

"A conscience?" She lets the sudden topic change slide.

Oh, you seem to have developed a conscience. How unexpected.  
"Indeed."  
Then you properly realise what it was going on about.  
"Could I borrow a pen, Melanie? And some paper?"

She nods, getting up and opening multiple drawers until she finds some. Gratefully, you take them off her.

The pen goes straight into your mouth.

You don't realise what you've done until there's a crunch and your mouth fills with ink. Ah-

"Helen are you _eating_ my pens?"

"Relying on muscle memory alone can be dangerous," you say, nonchalantly as possible. "Do you have another?"

"Okay fine, but this is your last strike. Eat, abduct or smash any more of my poor household objects and you're getting kicked out."

Writing utensil safely in hand, you split the page in two. One side you title 'Like', the other, 'Respect'. Then you pause.

Melanie takes a long, loud, slurp of her coffee. You glare at her, but it has absolutely no effect, even if she could see it.

Slowly, you write 'competent' in the Respect column. Below it, you put 'told Jon to fuck off', because as much as you might like the man, sometimes he needs to stop worrying about the small stuff like, for a start, not being human.

In Like, you put 'Jon' - then add a question mark to make 'Jon?'. You're not sure you can like someone because they like a third person you also like, but quite frankly you've had enough introspection for the day.

"Never had you pinned for an author," Melanie smirks.

"Never had you pinned for a comedian." You sigh. "Can I borrow a phone?"

"Landline's in the hall on your left. If you even _think_ about eating it..." she doesn't finish, the threat hanging in the air between you. "But if you're going to call Martin he's got no signal over there. You'd have to wait for him to ring from the phone box."

"I can get you to the other side of the Atlantic in seconds if I'm feeling nice. Creating a phone signal is the least of my problems."

(You - all those spiralling fractal parts of you - are suddenly, incredibly grateful for Melanie. For the fact she listened, for the fact she didn't judge, for the fact she didn't mind too much when you ate her stationary.)

Then, just to prove a point, you open a door that doesn't exist and step through to the hall.

"And for the record," Melanie shouts from a room over, "I don't think this is completely your fault."

You allow yourself a smile. It's sharp, it doesn't make sense, but there's real warmth in it.

Then you pick up the phone.

You don't have to wait long before he picks up.  
"Martin? It's- well, me. Could we talk?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout at me on tumblr! [regicidal-defenestration](https://regicidal-defenestration.tumblr.com/)


End file.
